


Real Slow

by deirdre_c



Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, Strip Tease, Stripping, Top Jensen, jared saves the video, jensen takes it all off, not-quite-non-AU, post-season-10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:26:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deirdre_c/pseuds/deirdre_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stripteasing on stage at conventions is a joke, until Jensen gets drunk and sends a private video to Jared. Then it’s not so funny anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Real Slow

Jensen just will not let it rest. 

He did that dumb pretend striptease at that one con back in January, and now Jared has to deal with the fact that Jensen’s turned it into a running joke. As in marathon-length. 

There’s Jensen, when they’re changing in wardrobe: “Yeah, baby. I’m gonna take it all off!”

When they’re out for a drink: “Dare me to hop up on the bar and see if I can make a few extra bucks, man?”

When Jared’s still shooting, and Jensen waves to him across the set as he heads home in street clothes and black baseball cap: “I can leeeave my hat on.” Jensen waggles his hips. The crew laughs and catcalls. Jared dismisses Jensen with a well-chosen finger and gets his Sam-face back on. 

At a subsequent con, Jared tried fighting fire with fire, doing his own little dance, but it wasn’t the same. He’s too much of a doofus, all gangly arms and no sense of rhythm. 

But Jensen and striptease? Oh the fans _love_ that shit. 

Jared doesn’t know why the play-stripping irks him. Well, not irks, so much as makes him uncomfortable, embarrassed. Jared thinks about the time on stage at SeaCon, the way Jensen peeled off his shirt and threw it around Jared’s shoulders. It was just… weird. Fortunately, Jared knows from experience that it will play itself out—like riding the minibikes or ambushing people with pies —and something else will come along that captures Jensen’s imagination.

So Jared simply smiles and rolls his eyes every time Jensen starts singing that little burlesque riff— _ba-dum-dum-dum, ba-dum-dum-dum_ — just like he’s expected to.

***

“You’re all talk, no action, Shackles.” They’re kicking back with some single malt Glenlivet in Jared’s trailer after a long night of shooting. Through the window, he thinks he can see the grey edge of dawn sneaking up on the horizon. He’s too old for this shit.

Jensen raises his eyebrows. “You think I wouldn’t?” 

“I think you shouldn’t,” Jared replies, covering his eyes in mock horror. 

“I think you’d love it,” he drawls.

“Not a chance. And let’s hope we never find out. From what I’ve seen, you leave a lot to be desired.” 

Jared catches this weird, hurt look flash in Jensen’s eyes, but it’s gone before Jared can decipher it. And Jensen covers it by making the Blue Steel face at him, which never fails to crack Jared up, dammit. 

“Untrue,” Jensen protests, taking another sip from his glass and smoldering at Jared over the rim. In his best Inigo Montoya voice he says, “Desire is my middle name, you know.” 

People all think Jared’s the clown of the cast, the one who makes the dumb jokes, but really, he’s got nothing on Jensen.

They finally finish filming for the season—the last few episodes more emotional and exhausting than ever—and both of them are looking forward to some time off. The only downside as far as Jared’s concerned is that they’re heading in opposite directions, with Jared going straight back home to San Antonio to visit his parents and Jensen having booked a gig in Tokyo for a commercial and a magazine photo shoot. 

Jared almost offers to go with him, because he’s never been to Japan. But they already get enough teasing for living in each other’s pockets. And, Jared has to admit that, between his divorce from Gen a few years ago and Jensen’s recent breakup with his long-term boyfriend, Daniel, their social lives have pretty much narrowed down into hanging out together, all the time. It can’t be natural.

Besides, there’s a convention in the UK and then the Rome con right after it in May, which means they’ll be travelling together in just a few weeks. A little time apart won’t be such a bad thing. 

Which is how Jared finds himself at YVR, waving as Jensen heads down the breezeway leading to his plane and then turning to make his way toward his own gate.

It is kind of gratifying, though, when Jensen texts him as soon as his plane touches down at Narita. Nice to know Jared’s not the only one who’s a bit over-invested in this friendship. An hour or so later they talk by Skype, Jensen sprawled on his hotel suite’s couch on his way to bed, Jared just waking up for the day. Jensen describes the drive in from the airport, the crazy crush of Tokyo’s downtown. Jared brags how his mom’s cooking beats sushi any day of the week.

But after that first day they keep missing connections. Jensen texts him again a couple of times in the middle of the night. Jared calls back, but Jensen’s already on the move.

 _Headed to do some kind of meet and greet. Try you later._

_Lunch with the photographer. Would rather be eating Sharon’s pot roast._

Jared texts back, laughing to himself. _will u b astronaut or cowboy this time?_ , he types, attaching an old picture he dug up off the internet from that goofy, surreal photo shoot Jensen did a million years ago. Then he heads out for to meet Jeff for some brotherly movie bonding at this new craft-brewery-and-cinema hybrid thing that opened up across town last year. It’s too bad Jensen’s not with them, because Jared’s certain he’d be in raptures over the pale ale.

***

Coming out of the theater a few hours later, Jared checks his phone and Jensen has blown it up. Eight texts, three emails, and two voice mails, all from Jensen. At first Jared feels an icy jolt of panic, anxious there’s an emergency. But as he scans the texts, he realizes all of them are telling him _not_ to open the first email. The one that Jensen sent him in the middle of the night.

The one that contains a video. 

Which basically means it’s something hideously embarrassing and Jared can’t wait to get home to check it out. 

Jeff drops him off as he’s listening to the second voice mail, the sound of Jensen’s voice slurry-drunk and pleading. Jared’s feeling a bit buzzed himself from sharing a couple pitchers, so he just laughs and settles himself into his bed with his laptop and clicks open the .mov file.

It’s Jensen in the hotel room, settling himself into pretty much the same spot as when they Skyped a few days before, the room dimmer, curtains closed. He wearing in some kind of designer suit, the tie just draped around his neck and the top buttons of the crisp white shirt unbuttoned. He sprawls back against the butter-yellow leather couch, smirking. He props his bare feet up on the coffee table.

Jared knows the look well. That sonofabitch is fucking _lit_.

When he’s been drinking, Jensen always gets relaxed and loose, his bones turn to quicksilver, and he drapes himself like a cat over whatever he’s sitting on. And right now his eyes are half-lidded, another easy tell. 

“Figured I’d record something for you since we never seem to be ‘round at the same time. Little somethin’ in your inbox when you wake up.” Jensen’s accent breaks through, thick as a Texas summer storm, and Jared’s lips quirk in a smile. That’s at least four beers worth of drawl right there. 

“D’you like the suit? They let me walk off with it after the shoot.” Jensen gestures down at the dark blue jacket, trim-fitted perfectly over the shoulders. It’s the kind of suit Jared can’t ever seem to find at his height. The kind of suit Jensen was born to wear. 

Jared watches as he runs a hand down the lapel. Such a clothes horse. 

“Wish you’d been here. You’d’a gotten a kick out of all the outfits they made me go through. Felt like _Pretty Woman_ there for awhile.” Jensen snorts. “Then again, you’d been here, you’d have had to suffer through a lot more of my stripping jokes, wouldn’t you?”

Jensen lets his head loll to the side. “Stripping. Strip. Striptease.” He says it so low Jared hardly hears it. Then his eyes snap to the camera. “I’ll show you striptease.”

Jared watches as Jensen rolls up off the couch and pads over to where his phone is plugged into some kind of dock connected to a speaker. 

He pushes a couple buttons and suddenly horns blare out a melody, bright and brassy. Jared chuckles and slumps back further into his own pillows, propping the computer higher in his lap. No wonder Jensen wanted him to delete this. There is clearly about to be some ridiculous _Magic Mike_ -level bumping and grinding. Jared cannot wait to drag Jensen over the coals because of it. Oh, the Grade-A shit Jared is going to serve him. 

The low lighting in the hotel room catches the angles of Jensen’s features. But where Jared’s expecting to see Jensen’s usual sarcastic, dead-pan look of _I’m about to make a fool of myself and I don’t give a crap_ , it’s not there. Instead Jensen looks… serious. Chin up, shoulders square, he looks determined, as if commanding Jared to watch. 

He starts out swaying a bit from foot to foot. His gaze never leaves the camera, like it’s live, like he’s right here, staring into Jared’s eyes. He shrugs and the suit jacket slips off his shoulders and down to the floor in one smooth motion. Jared knows, if it’d been him, he would’ve been standing there tugging and wrestling with it. 

But not Jensen. Jensen makes everything look easy. 

Next is the tie. But there’s no mock-sexy, elaborate jerking it around. No twirling. Jensen simply draws the silk in a long, leisurely tug from around his neck, letting it fall to the floor in a coiled puddle. As if he’s not paying attention to anything but Jared through the lens.

Jared can’t figure it out. This should be ridiculous. Jensen should be waggling his eyebrows and goofing around and shaking his ass. Jared should be laughing. 

He’s not laughing. 

Jensen’s not laughing either. His eyes are hot, glassy, intent. He does that thing that makes the fangirls crazy, where he presses his tongue against the back of his teeth, mouth slightly open, lips wet and glistening. And Jared’s pretty certain Jensen’s just acting right now, pulling tried-and-true expressions out of his toolbox, but it feels different like this, not on set, just for him. 

Jensen’s hand drifts up the front of his shirt stretched snugly across his chest. Two fingers circle lazily, sensually, around and around one of the buttons in time with the music. Jared feels like he can’t breathe, anticipating the moment when Jensen undoes it. There it goes. First button. Then a second. The shirt gapes open to reveal the line of Jensen’s sternum. A third. The flat plane of his stomach appears. 

Jensen’s been working out hard this past season—ever since he found out about the Demon Dean bedroom scenes—and has kept it up since then. Jared’s been proud of him in an off-hand way, actually a little jealous at having to curtail his own lifting because of the shoulder surgery.

But this somehow feels like the first time Jared’s really _looked_ at Jensen’s body. He finds himself contemplating how sleek his bare skin might feel, how firm the muscle underneath, how hot to the touch. Jensen pulls the shirttails out of his pants and flicks them behind him. He’s always been fit—levels varying on whether they were filming shirtless that episode, of course—but also a little soft, more than a hint of belly, not obsessing over contours like Jared. But now there’s definitely abs, and pecs, and the hint of muscle cut above the hips. 

Jared sees Jensen slide a hand back up his torso to start rubbing small circles over his nipple, just like the shirt button before. He wonders how sensitive Jensen is there. If he gets hot, like a girl, just from playing with them. Apparently so, because Jared’s watching closely enough he can see Jensen’s eyelashes flutter, sees a little shiver make his stomach muscles clench. An echo of that shiver zips through Jared, straight to his groin. 

His face flushes hot at the response.

It’s nuts. Absolutely nuts. Jared’s not gay. Yeah, he fooled around with a few guys back when he first got to Hollywood. But everyone experiments in college… or on the set of _Gilmore Girls_ , same difference. It never really appealed and he’s stuck with women ever since. 

Plus, this is _Jensen_. His best friend. Practically a brother. The same guy who had told him matter-of-factly on Day One of shooting the _Supernatural_ pilot he was gay, and that had been that. Never any sexual tension between them. Nothing but the ultimate platonic friendship. In fact it’s Jared who’s always the one being handsy, wrapping himself around Jensen in public. Jensen never minding but rarely initiating, because he says he wants to avoid giving extra fodder to the fans who already like to couple them up way more than they should in their minds. 

All these years, Jensen never showed one iota of interest in Jared as—as what?

On the screen, Jensen tilts his head back leaving his throat exposed, the hollow of it shadowed reddish-indigo in the low light. His hips start to move, a small tight swivel. He flattens both his palms against his own abdomen, and drags them slowly up the planes of his body. 

Jensen’s lips form a word, unvocalized, but clear and familiar. _Jared_.

Jared shifts in his bed, sits up straighter, his jeans growing tighter and more uncomfortable by the second, his pulse racing. It’s less than a minute into the video and it already seems like an hour. Jared’s had full-on lap dances in Vegas that were less sexy, less intense than this. 

Jensen pushes the shirt all the way off. 

Fuck, Jared shouldn’t be watching this. He sure shouldn’t be feeling like this as he watches. Feeling like he wants to reach through the screen to trail his fingers over the thin skin along Jensen’s collarbone. Feeling like he’d want to follow the trail of his hand with his _mouth_. 

This is just some weird joke of Jensen’s. It must be. And yet here’s Jared treating it like private porn. 

His mind jerks away from the word like it’s a hot stove. Jesus Christ. He should close the computer right now.

Instead he bites at the inside of his cheek and doesn’t blink.

Because now Jensen’s walking toward the camera, weaving a little, turning it into a swagger. He gets up so close that just his crotch is framed on the screen. Slowly, unbearably slowly, Jensen unbuckles his belt. The soft scrape of glossy black leather and clink of metal can be heard over the jangle of music, so close. 

Jensen runs a fingertip up and down his fly, flicks the button with his thumb, plays around with the zipper pull. Taunting, like he knows Jared’s dying for him to keep going. Oh god, then he does. He unzips. Black boxer briefs like a second skin, hugging the fat bulge—holy fuck, Jensen’s _hard_ —straining at the fabric. 

He widens his stance and just stands there, filling Jared’s screen, his dick is so thick, right there in front of Jared’s face. The bastard grabs the end of his loose belt and glides the tip of it up and down his dick in an obscene caress. Jared has to shove the heel of his hand down into his lap, pressing against his own hard-on to get some relief from the throbbing pressure in his balls. 

The two of them joke around from time to time—typical guy banter about who’s packing more… the third leg… Sam Winchester keeps a ruler by the bed… Eric’s old gag about full-frontal on the show—but Jared never before gave much actual thought to what Jensen’s cock looked like, how it would feel, how it might fucking _taste_. He sure as hell does now.

Jensen steps away, turns around so his back is to the camera, hips rolling just the slightest bit as he walks away. Just enough to let his slacks—dark like the midnight sky—slip down lower and lower, revealing another inch, two, more of his boxers, his shoulders pulled back to emphasize the long, elegant arc of his spine. 

Jared’s hunched over the laptop now, coiled tight around it, his fingers gripping the edges of it hard enough to hurt. 

Jensen’s pants hang up on the high curve of his ass. He stops, looks over his shoulder, right at the camera, right at Jared. This is the teasing Jared expected from the first, but it’s not silly as it should be. Instead it’s pure sex.

[ ](http://s37.photobucket.com/user/deirdre_c/media/51476_600_zpsafw7pfro.png.html)

It’s a side of Jensen he’s never seen before. None of the awkwardness of Jensen’s scenes with love interests on the show, where Jensen always looks like he’s about to leap out of his skin and run away, and directors have to beg him into extra takes just to get something that looks halfway comfortable. Not in real life either, with Daniel or the guys he dated before that, where he’d barely hold hands in public, careful of privacy. No. This Jensen is something different. Sensual and confident and in control.

Jared recalls a conversation late one night, years ago, when he asked out of sheer curiosity whether Jensen was a top or a bottom. Jensen had shrugged and casually said “top” like it was the difference between Coke and Pepsi. Jared hadn’t pursued any details—Jensen had quickly shifted topics—but remembers thinking at the time he didn’t really understand how that all worked. 

He has a much better idea now. Can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t roll over and beg for Jensen. This Jensen. The one who’s hooking a finger into his precarious waistband and raising an eyebrow at the camera, as if asking whether he should or not. 

“Yes,” Jared croaks out loud. 

Jensen eases the slacks down, begins to rotate slowly on the spot while high-priced fabric slides down his legs to the floor. When he’s facing Jared again, he carelessly steps out of them, tucking his toe underneath and flipping them out of the way. 

Jensen’s eyes are so heavy-lidded now they’re barely slits, but the look he gives Jared could melt the lens. He notches his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers, right on either side of his fucking crotch, and pulls them away from his skin, lowering them just a touch, the stretch making the contours of his cock even clearer, the tip threatening to pop right out. He holds the fabric down for a moment and then lets go. It snaps back, but lower on one side, leaving that hip enticingly bare, merging into a dark shadow that hints at pubes. 

An involuntarily groan wells up in the back of Jared’s throat, and there’s no escaping the fact that he wants it. God, he wants to see Jensen’s dick. See it full and thick, see how hairy he is, see how his balls hang down below it, imagine holding it in his hand. 

It’s been a dozen years or more since Jared tried—badly—to give someone a blowjob, but he can picture himself there, in that room halfway around the world, going to his knees in front of Jensen, begging him to let Jared take it into his mouth. 

The muscles in Jared’s thighs strain with the effort not to thrust upwards. He clutches white-knuckled at the sheet beside him so as not to curl his hand around his aching erection and get himself off at the thought of his best friend’s dick sliding over his tongue.

Jensen seems to be thinking the same thing, because he’s biting his lip as he teases a fingertip across the front of his briefs. His dick twitches under the faint touch and the sight makes Jared gasp and squirm. 

He’s not sure how much more he can take, not sure how he’s ever going to look at Jensen again without thinking of this moment. 

Then Jensen’s hands drop and he slowly saunters toward the camera. Gradually, gradually closing the distance between the two of them, like he has the power to walk right through the screen. His face is flushed, his lips shiny. 

Jensen leans into the camera, pinning him to the bed’s backboard with his gaze. “And _that’s_ how you do a striptease, Jared.”

Then the screen goes black.

***

[ ](http://s37.photobucket.com/user/deirdre_c/media/51343_600_zps9shalqjk.png.html)

***

Jared doesn’t know what to do with himself after that. He’s simultaneously freaking out and completely paralyzed. And poor Jensen keeps emailing and texting, while Jared just keeps looking blankly at his phone and thinking about how he’d shut the laptop, rolled over, and jacked off into the sheets with Jensen’s name on his lips.

But then a text comes in that pulls Jared up short. Jensen wrote: _Please tell me I sent that email to you and not someone else. If it gets leaked to the media. Fuck._

At that, Jared has to respond. No way can he let Jensen think anyone but him saw this. 

_It’s cool. I deleted it._

And he should continue. Write more. Lie. Tell Jensen he didn’t watch it. What was it anyway? Tease him like he normally would and get past this. 

Except for the fact that Jared _didn’t_ delete it. Well, he deleted the email and scrubbed it from his account as best he knew how, but he saved a copy of the video file buried deep in a series of random folders on his laptop, password protected. As safe as he could make it and still be able to pull it up to watch. Again. 

And again.

Jensen doesn’t respond after that. Stops calling. Stops texting.

Jared’s pretty sure that is not a good sign. And that he’s definitely sure he should be a better friend and fucking call Jensen up and talk about something unrelated like nothing ever happened. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Jared hunkers down and tries not to think about it. Well, okay, no, that’s not true. He hunkers down and thinks about it constantly. He’s pretty sure his dick is going to be chafed if he keeps thinking about it this much. It’s just—it’s all so crazy. He has all these vivid images seared in his brain and all these questions about what it means. Whether Jensen was just drunk, or if he gets hard over Jared the same way Jared’s suddenly getting hard at any thought of him.

He pictures it, over and over, not just the striptease, but all kinds of scenarios. Handjobs or blowjobs or getting naked in Jared’s trailer between episode takes or Jensen flying straight here from Japan to show up on Jared’s doorstep and throw him down on the couch to fuck. Which of course would be seriously awkward in real life because, you know, his parents’ house. But in fantasies it’s all good. 

Except for how it isn’t good at all.

Mostly he wishes Jensen hadn’t been drunk. Wishes Jensen had maybe said something before, ever—at any time—given Jared any indication that they might have something between them other than friendship. Now, over the years, whenever. 

Mostly he wishes to high heaven that he’d never opened that email.

***

Days tick by. Then a week. It’s the longest Jared’s gone without talking to Jensen in—in—well, in longer than he can remember. Perhaps even since they met. During his gloomier, more melodramatic moments, he thinks this must be what it feels like to have a limb amputated or something. Whatever. It sucks.

But then the date for Asylum approaches and Jared remembers that he and Jensen made plans to sightsee in London together for a few days before the con and he realizes he’s got a perfect excuse to break the silence. 

As long as Jensen’s still planning to show up. 

Jared changes his plane ticket to fly out a day earlier than planned. When he lands, he gets checked in at the hotel and makes sure that when Jensen arrives in the next day, he’ll have the room across the hall. After that he basically camps out with the internet and room service meals and tries to distract himself from thinking about all the ways this could go pear-shaped, until the next morning when he takes a hired car out to Heathrow.

Back during the earlier seasons of the show, Jensen used to travel pretty frequently from Vancouver down to L.A. Most weekends he’d fly down—this was when he and Dan first started dating—and come back on Sundays to prep for the next week’s filming. Jared made a habit of picking him up from the airport.

After awhile, he’d started bringing little cardboard signs to hold up—like a chauffeur’s service—with Jensen’s name on them. Spelled wrong of course. Johnson Ackballs. Jason Acclueless. Jessen Assless. Jerksen Ackloholics. 

C’mon, admit it. It’s funny.

Jared had quit after awhile, doesn’t even remember why, now. But what better time to resurrect the joke than when things are kind of fucked up and he needs an ice-breaker? 

So Jared asks his driver to circle with the car outside while he hops out and enters the terminal. He checks the screens to see whether Jensen’s flight has landed—assuming Jensen’s on it—and stations himself among the crowd of hired chauffeurs with their own little signs at the bottom of the escalator leading from customs.

He carefully searches all the faces that approach until he spots that most familiar one. Why was he worried he’d miss Jensen in the crowd? He couldn’t miss him anywhere. He holds up his little white rectangular sign with “Jetson Ankles” scrawled on it.

Jensen does a double take when he notices Jared, then slowly walks over. 

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says quietly.

“I’m sorry.” Jared has to get that out before anything. Because, god, he is. So sorry that he’s been such a dickwad these past few weeks. Just standing here, talking to Jensen in person, it’s as if he’s set down some huge weight he’s been hauling around on his back since they parted. 

“No, it’s my fault,” Jensen replies. “I never should—“ 

“Hey, hold up. You think we could talk about this at the hotel?” Jared hates to cut him off, but apparently Jensen’s not too pissed to talk to him, and he doesn’t really want to have this out in front of several hundred travelers. Also, although it’s not as if any paparazzi know they’re in town, this is Britain. If there’s anywhere someone’s going to snap some awkward pics and sell them online, it’s here.

Jensen glances around as if he’d forgotten there were other people nearby. Then he nods. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Jared texts the driver to pull around and Jensen gets his luggage sorted and they finally both get in the back seat of the sedan and on their way into the city.

“How was the flight?” Jared asks immediately, unwilling to let an awkward silence settle over them. Although, truly, awkward small-talk is only marginally better.

“Good. They gave us those little sleep masks and matching slippers that you like.” A little smile plays around Jensen’s lips and, bingo, that’s all Jared needs. 

The rest of the ride he’s telling Jensen stupid stories about this crazy cat lady he sat next to during his own flight, news from back in San Antone, fucking jokes from BuzzFeed. Jensen’s right there with him, adding acerbic commentary, mostly at Jared’s expense, exactly like normal, and it all feels fine. Jared’s worries about this—this occurrence changing things between them start to melt away. 

That is, until the car pulls up to the hotel entrance. Jared goes to help by grabbing Jensen’s carry-on bag, but Jensen reaches for it at the same time. And when their hands brush, Jensen yanks his back like he’s been bit by a snake. 

That’s when the elephant in the room rears back and trumpets, and Jared kicks himself for thinking it would be this easy. Or easy at all. This is Jensen. He puts up a good front, but Jared’s learned over the years that there’s about eight deeper levels of thought going on at any given time behind Jensen’s hey-just-a-regular-bro façade. 

Jensen opens his mouth to say something, but then shuts it abruptly, just turns and hops out of the car. 

_Well_ , Jared thinks, sitting there feeling like the biggest idiot to walk the earth. _That could’ve gone better._

***

The hotel the travel agent booked them in is this stylish, boutique-y place right in Knightsbridge. Not Jared’s typical style, but the bed is large enough and comfortable, and the big arching windows in Jared’s suite look out over Hyde Park. Jensen will like it for the sleek design and the private cognac bar downstairs.

At least Jared hopes Jensen will. Jensen’s full of surprises lately, isn’t he?

Anyway, he’d figured Jensen would want a few minutes to shower and chill out a bit before they went out on any adventures in the city, but now, sitting here alone on his room’s oversized mauve brocade sofa, Jared’s not sure what to do next. Does he go knock on Jensen’s door? Does he wait and hope Jensen comes over here? Should he call? It would be his first phone call to Jensen since this whole thing started.

His chest is tight, and so’s his throat. It’s stupid, this uncertainty. Just a few minutes with Jensen again and he realizes how goddamn much he’s _missed_ him. He figures they’ll meet up somehow, and when they do he’s gonna let Jensen say his piece, and then suggest they forget the whole thing. 

Except for how… Jared doesn’t want to forget the whole thing. 

He thinks about the bright zing that swept his nerves when his hand touched Jensen’s in the car: something completely different than he’s ever felt with Jensen, but something at the same time recognizable right down to his core. He thinks about how it feels when he looks at Jensen, not just the affection and caring, but the urge to touch that he constantly—every day—gives way to, the slap on the knee, the nudge to the shoulder. The undeniable need to be close, closer. 

He thinks about Jensen in that video, fondling himself while mouthing Jared’s name.

Jared stands, swipes the key off the side table, and walks straight out of his room, letting the door close behind him. He takes four steps across the hall to Jensen’s. 

When he knocks, Jensen answers. He’s wearing jeans and his favorite dark blue button down with the sleeves rolled up, barefoot, hair damp and smelling of that tea tree stuff he always uses. No hotel shampoo for Jensen.

“Can I come in?”

Jensen looks weary. Wary. It’s the kind of look that usually makes Jared want to hug him. Now Jared actually wants more. 

Jensen steps aside to let him enter. Their living rooms match, except Jensen’s is all soft tans and golds. Jared deliberately does not glance toward the double doors that lead to the bedroom area.

He sits down on the couch, right on the edge of the cushion, his elbows propped on his knees. Jensen leans up against the wet bar-console thingy, his face a stone wall. Jared kicks himself for not prepping some kind of speech, some script, back in his room. Because right now his mind is a jumble of thoughts and emotions, a giant ball of white noise and anxiety about reading this all wrong, but all laid over this weird joy and relief at simply breathing the same air as Jensen.

If there’s one thing he’s figured out in the sixty seconds between seeing Jensen’s face at the door and sitting down, it’s that the tension between them isn’t going to get any better by ignoring it. At least, not at his end.

“Why did you send me that video?” 

He sees Jensen’s jaw clench, and his freckles stand out against his skin a little more vividly. 

“Because I was wasted?” Jensen huffs. But it comes out like a question, like he’s asking Jared to accept the easy excuse and let it stand. 

“Hell yeah, you were,” Jared smirks, leaning back to throw an arm over the back of the couch. He’s going for normal, casual, trying to signal to Jensen that _it’s all good, we’re good_. “But if you and I are gonna get through this—“ and he gestures back and forth at the empty space between them, “—I need to know if there’s another reason, too. What was that all about? Why didn’t you want me to watch it?”

Jensen’s eyes cut away. “I’m pretty sure you know. You know. Don’t make me say it.” And the guy’s a damn fine actor, but Jared still catches the slight tremble in his voice. It’s almost enough to make Jared back off; he’s never been able to stand it when Jensen’s hurt or sad, would move the world to make everything better.

And yet. 

He chooses to keep pushing, hoping, reaching out dangerously far for that golden ring. “What if I need to hear you say it?” 

“Why?” Jensen demands, hard and heated now, crossing his arms across his chest, gearing up for a fight. “So my big gay love can ruin our friendship?”

“It—it won’t.” Jared had been on a roll there for a second, but then Jensen casually slipped the “l” word in there and now Jared’s head is spinning like he took a right hook to the jaw. 

“Oh, really? So why is it you can’t even look at me? Haven’t returned my texts? My calls? You can pretend you’re cool with it, but you’re so freaked out right now you want to run the fuck out of here.”

“No, that’s not it… I don’t want to do that at all. I—” Jared stands, then, and paces the small space between the coffee table and couch. It’s like all his words are broken and if Jared could just get to Jensen somehow, some other way, show him what Jared’s come to discover. And it dawns on him. He could. He can.

“I’m sorry,” Jensen’s saying, bitterly. “I’m sorry you had to find out. Find out how I feel about you.” His voice drops so low Jared can hardly hear it. “Ten times a day, a hundred times, I wish I’d never made that thing.”

“I thought that at first, too,” Jared says, coming around the table and closing the gap between them, drawn like a magnet right up into Jensen’s space. “But now I’m really glad you did.”

“What? Why?”

“Because this.” 

He puts his hand on the back of Jensen’s neck and pulls him close, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t give either of them a chance to over-think it, just presses his lips lightly, carefully against Jensen’s.

The kiss isn’t like Jared imagined. On the one hand, he’s relieved it doesn’t feel weird, kissing a guy, or weirdly incestuous, kissing Jensen. In fact, Jensen’s perfect mouth is as warm and soft as he dreamed and just the feel of it makes Jared’s legs turn to jelly. 

But those lips don’t move under his. Jensen doesn’t reach up and drag him closer. He doesn’t react at all. 

For a split second Jared’s tempted to dive in and _really_ kiss, lick and nip and make Jensen open up to Jared’s tongue learning the taste of him, but Jared takes ahold of himself. Still not that easy. Never that easy.

He pulls back to get a look at Jensen’s expression, gauge how badly he’s fucked up. But Jensen simply looks stunned, astonished, and his hands come up to grip Jared’s biceps like they’ll never let go. 

“Jesus, what the hell was that?” he says. “You’re straight. You’re not into men. You’ve never been into men.”

“Tell that to my dick. Because I’ve jerked off to that video of yours at least a dozen times since you sent it.” Jared’s never seen someone’s jaw actually drop before. It’s pretty cool. “So, straight?” he continues, grinning. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“’Maybe go fuck yourself,’” Jensen quips, automatically finishing the line from one of their favorite movie quotes. Then he blushes, actually fucking blushes, and Jared’s heart starts to turn cartwheels around inside his chest.

“I think—” Jared says, throwing all caution to the wind, “I think I’d rather _you_ fucked me.” He tries to make it come out like a joke, but he’s not joking and saying it out loud suddenly makes his stomach feel all hollow. Because, holy crap, he just asked Jensen to have full-on sex with him and now he really has to consider what going through with it means.

It’s too late for gay-crisis regrets, though, because Jensen’s fixing him with a hard look. Jared tries not to squirm under the scrutiny, quickly buries any uncertainties in a six-foot grave. He shrugs, props a little sideways smile in the corner of his mouth like, _whatcha gonna do, turns out I think you’re hot like fire_.

So there it is. Jared couldn’t have been any plainer if he got a tattoo of Jensen’s name on his forehead. Now he figures it’s Jensen’s turn to act. Or not. His decision.

What Jensen decides to do is tighten his grip on Jared’s arms and spin them around so that Jared’s back is up against the hotel room wall. Jensen steps in, pressing full length up against Jared’s body, and brings their lips back together. This time, it’s all Jensen, his hands coming up, one to cup Jared’s jaw, the other tangling in his hair, holding Jared’s head in place so Jensen can work, soft and slow, his tongue slipping in, caressing, exploring, laving along the ridge of Jared’s teeth. 

Holy shit, it feels so good. Jared’s stance widens instinctively so that their heights are a closer match and allows Jensen to shift even closer, kissing him even deeper. He has no idea how, but Jensen tastes almost familiar, delicious and intimate and essential. Jared feels his body almost melt into Jensen’s and then he gasps into Jensen’s mouth as their hips connect. It’s like breathing in pure oxygen, he’s so lightheaded and giddy. He drags air in as Jensen eases back, leaving soft, featherlike kisses at the corner of his mouth and against the swell of his bottom lip.

Finally, they break apart. Jensen rubs his thumb over Jared’s temple and he looks at him like he’s the only thing in the world Jensen can see. "What do you think?” he says ruefully. “You ready to run now?"

“Not a chance,” Jared says, and his voice sounds strange in his ears over the loud pounding of his pulse, the thrum of blood draining from his head and coursing hot down through his body.

His fingers seem to have a mind of their own, because when Jared glances down he sees them twined in Jensen’s shirttails.

“We should take this slow,” Jensen offers gently.

“Or instead you should take this off.” He tugs at the shirt. 

“Like in the video?” Jensen scoffs, but his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“Oh.” Jared says, and god, he suddenly can’t think of a single thing hotter than that. “Yeah. That would be—yeah.” He can feel his face heating up. Seriously, now he’s outright _asking_ for a striptease? 

But Jensen’s got his eyebrows raised like Jared dared him and he’s not backing down. 

“Can’t really remember much,” Jensen says, low and lazy, licking his fucking lips, the fucker. “Was so drunk. How did it go?”

“You—“ The start of the recording flashes into Jared’s mind, and he has to drag in a deep breath, because he’s so turned on he’s about to fly out of his skin. “—you had a tie, and then you started with the shirt buttons.” He brings his own hand up pointing to his tee and makes a half-hearted circle with his index finger. 

Jensen takes a half-step back. “Like this?” 

It’s even better in person, Jensen right there within reach as he strokes the buttons, round and round, unfastening them one by one. A little faster than he had on that night in Tokyo, but it’s so, so much better, because once they’re undone, he moves close again, his shirt flung open and his skin _right_ there. “What next?” he demands. 

“You touched yourself,” Jared rasps, his hands in fists at his sides to keep from reaching out. Not yet. Not yet. 

But Jensen holds a hand out, palm up, between them and says, “Show me how I did it.” 

Oh, fuck. Jared tries to ignore the fact he’s trembling when he takes Jensen’s wrist and places the hand, palm down, on his belly. Then Jensen lets him drag it upward until it reaches his chest. Jensen hooks his index finger around Jared’s so that together they’re playing with his nipple, circling the smooth darker skin around it, skimming over the tiny peaked nub. Dimly Jared hears Jensen suck in a juddering breath, and a quick glance finds Jensen's eyes locked on him, glazed and full of want.

“Shirt,” Jared says next. It comes out as barely a croak. 

He watches as Jensen shrugs, tugging at one sleeve and rolling his shoulders to send the shirt sliding to the floor.

“Now it’s your turn,” Jensen counters, and unlike Jared he’s so fucking smooth, his voice as thick and sweet as hot honey.

Jared blindly reaches back behind him and grabs his Longhorns tee by the collar. He yanks it off over his head, his hair fanning out madly around his face, and when he shakes it back, Jensen’s up on him, maneuvering him against the wall again. 

“Sorry. Sorry, can I just—” Jensen starts, but doesn’t wait before putting his mouth at the base of Jared’s neck. An almost pained moan vibrates through Jared’s chest as Jensen kisses his way up, a slow, wet trail, pausing to drag his teeth slightly over the bump of Jared’s Adam’s apple. He teases the underside of Jared’s jaw with his lips and tongue. And it’s like the flare of a match striking, the harsh, startlingly unfamiliar scrape of thick stubble against the sensitive flesh there.

[ ](http://s37.photobucket.com/user/deirdre_c/media/51086_600_zpswuileyog.png.html)

So it's not Jared's fault that he whimpers then like a dog begging for scraps, because it feels like every single nerve ending just plugged into a direct line to his dick. He can’t help it, his hips start hitching forward in little thrusts, brushing against Jensen’s crotch, dying for a little friction.

Jensen stops nuzzling at that magical spot under Jared’s ear and leans back to look him in the eye, searching his face intently. “What do you think? You want to take this to the bedroom?” 

There should be a long list of reasons why Jared would hesitate, but he can't come up with a single one. Not when there are bigger things to focus on, like Jensen’s hands resting on Jared’s waist, his thumbs tracing exquisite circles into the bare skin of his hips, sending pins-and-needles shocks over Jared's skin.

“I—“ Jared licks his suddenly dry lips and sees Jensen’s gaze fasten hungrily on his mouth, not hiding anymore, and, yeah, this is going to happen. “—I’m pretty sure I do.” 

Jensen steps back with a significant glance down at the conspicuous bulge in Jared’s jeans, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Pretty sure?” he echoes. 

Then he thumbs the button of his jeans, eases the zipper open, and turns around to walk toward the doors at the other end of the suite. The pants start to slip down to reveal those same damnable black boxers, and when he shoots a familiar glance back over his shoulder at him, Jared realizes the little bitch remembers every second of that video. 

“Fuck me,” he swears under his breath. And then he follows, heart ka-thudding like tires over potholes on a dirt road at the thought of how that’s very likely what’s about to happen here.

Jared doesn’t see Jensen when he enters the room—his entire attention consumed by the sight of the huge king-sized bed still precisely made up and piled high with cream and gold decorative pillows—and he swallows hard, those nerves starting to get the better of him. What happens if he can’t, if he panics in the middle? What if he fucks this up, if Jensen hates him for it? 

Then suddenly Jensen’s there, strolling out of the bathroom with a little leather travel bag in his hands. He reads Jared like a book, because he immediately tosses the kit onto the bed so that he can hurry over to wind his arms around Jared and draw him close. "Hey, hey. It’s okay. C’mere." 

He just stands there, holding Jared, his palms splayed wide across Jared’s back. It’s soothing, calm, dispassionate, the same kind of hug Jensen would have given him before this all started. It’s great, but it not enough. 

Jared pulls back, his voice coming out pathetically small and uncertain. “Kiss me again?”

Jensen doesn’t answer, doesn’t tease him, just leans up, natural as anything, his mouth firm, pressing Jared so skillfully to open up, he can't help but do it. He opens wide to Jensen, searching for confidence, certainty, and Jensen's tongue is there, feeding it to him. Jared forgets to think again and just gives himself up to how right it feels. It’s crazy, how the sensation of Jensen’s bare chest pressed up against his is somehow a source of comfort, not weirdness, but he guesses it just makes sense. Everything about Jensen has always made Jared happy, why should this be any different?

Jared slides his hand down to take Jensen’s, lacing their fingers together. He backs up toward the bed, tugging Jensen along. Jensen follows, planting little off-center pecks on Jared’s mouth along the way, like it might kill him to be not kissing Jared for the five seconds it takes to walk over to the bed.

The mattress hits Jared against the back of his knees and he plops down gracelessly, off balance. And it’s a goddamn miracle Jensen finds anything attractive about him, he’s such a spaz. On the other hand, even as Jensen settles next to him, he’s leaning down for another deep, heated kiss, both hands cupping Jared’s face, so Jared must be doing _something_ right.

Long, lush minutes go by, but eventually, reluctantly, Jared has to pull back to breathe. Jensen slips a hand around to the side of Jared’s neck and pulls them together, so they lean forehead-to-forehead.

“Tell me again. Tell me again that you’re sure,” Jensen says softly. “Because, Jesus, I’ve wanted this so bad, for so long. You have no idea. I just… you gotta be sure. I’m trying to do the right thing here, but you’re making it really hard.”

And it’s as if this crack, this peek into Jensen’s desperation, the knowledge that he is struggling a bit too, gives Jared all the assurance he needs. 

He smirks. “I believe making it hard is the whole point.” He reaches a hand into Jensen’s lap and runs a knuckle down the length of the impressive hard-on framed in the open vee of his jeans. 

"I hate you so fucking much," Jensen groans, swatting Jared’s hand away before Jared manages to tackle him back into the mattress, snickering.

"But I _love_ you," he replies, and the laughter catches in his throat. They both freeze in place. He can’t take it back. He doesn’t want to take it back. Quieter now, he continues, "So much, Jensen."

Then Jensen's hands are digging into Jared's shoulders, sliding down the curve of his spine, pulling him in closer even though Jared’s already lying right on top of him.

Suddenly Jared feels amped up, euphoric, like coming off the set after nailing a scene, like the loopy spike of adrenaline after barely avoiding a fall. Jensen’s wriggling beneath him, fumbling at his jeans, and naked suddenly seems absolutely necessary. It’s awkward and clumsy, but they both shuck their pants and underwear and by the time Jared kicks his to the foot of the bed, Jensen’s swept all of the pillows off onto the floor, pulled down the blankets, and is turning to him once again.

The bright mid-morning sun filters through the sheer curtain over the windows and gilds Jensen’s chest, his thighs. It sparks gold highlights in his hair, reddish in his beard and the wiry curls framing his cock. He’s so beautiful, so perfectly made, just looking at him sends a wash of heat surging through Jared.

All these years, he's never seen Jensen naked before. He was always so private, so careful about anything Jared might interpret as sexual, and Jared never wanted to intrude on that. Of course now he understands a little better why Jensen was hiding. Secret feelings that he’s opening up to Jared like a gift.

Jared doesn’t get any more time to admire, because Jensen puts his hand on Jared's waist and pulls him down, pulls him close, and Jared shivers—and possibly lets out a less-than-manly squeak—when his dick presses against Jensen's thigh.

He’s silenced by the hot wet bliss of Jensen's tongue. Now Jared lets himself explore a little, running his hands over Jensen’s ribs, down his stomach, over his pecs and his shoulders. He hasn’t quite gotten the courage up to venture any lower, but it doesn’t matter. Jensen’s making the sexiest noises, tiny, pleading moans from the back of his throat. The sharp bite he gives Jared’s bottom lip sends a bolt of sensation through him and Jared is soaking up heat from Jensen’s body like a sponge. His balls throb with an urgent ache, and oh god, he’s about to lose it before they get any further.

Of course, they don’t have go further. Jared could reach down and jerk Jensen off, and vice versa. Mutual orgasms only a minute or two away. But Jared’s got his mind set on more. No matter how absurd and archaic it sounds, he wants to give something important to Jensen, something intimate above all, a symbol of how committed Jared is to this, how much he trusts Jensen, how much he wants to be with him.

With a herculean effort, Jared moves away. Just a little, an inch or two. The color is high in Jensen’s cheeks, lighting up the green in his eyes, which are adorably crossed as he tries to focus on Jared’s face. 

“Where’s that bag of yours?” Jared murmurs. Because he may be dumb, but not he’s stupid, and he knows if Jensen’s going to fuck him, they’re going to need a boatload of lube. And if he has anything to say about it, Jensen is _definitely_ going to fuck him. He just better hurry, before Jared loses his nerve.

Jensen practically falls out of bed scrambling for the travel kit where it had landed on the floor. Jared scoops up an abandoned pillow to prop himself on, an anchor on the sea of the bare mattress. He shoves the loose ends of his hair behind his ears, tying to use just those few seconds of separation to gather himself.

But it seems as though he’d need a lot longer than that, because as soon as Jensen crawls back onto the bed, reaching for him, Jared starts to babble, a stream of moronic crap pouring out of his mouth. “Hope you have a thing for virgins. You know, heh, ‘be gentle, it's my first time’ and all that. Unless you like it rough. I mean, maybe we could work our way up to that. Or not. Whatever.” He’s mentally shouting at himself to _shut up, shut up, shut up_ , because this is simply adding a heaping helping of embarrassment to the shaky concoction in his gut of combined nervousness and hot desire. 

But Jared sees Jensen’s gaze soften, lust and need making room for tenderness and fond amusement. How many times has he put that latter look on Jensen’s face? How much does he love it? How often has he chased after it on set or at cons with silly jokes and general goofiness? He knows it, he knows Jensen. He knows this is going to be all right.

Jensen puts a tentative hand on Jared’s shin, a deliberately neutral and unerotic place. “Hold up,” he says, “It’s okay, believe me, we don’t have to do this.”

“But I _want_ to. I want _you_. I swear,” Jared insists. “I just suck at showing it.” He kind flails his hands around helplessly then crosses his arms across his bare chest. 

Jensen tips his head to the side, over-earnest. “Are you trying to set up a joke about ‘sucking’ now?”

That makes Jared bite down on a grin, giddy with relief that Jensen’s not going to back off. Because he does want this. And he’s done freaking out, honest. And although he isn’t quite shameless enough to point directly at his groin and his still-insistent erection, he gives a nod downward. “Comedy is hard.”

Jensen throws his head back and cackles, and by the time he’s done, Jared’s scooted in close enough to start laying a string of kisses up Jensen’s shoulder to his neck and then his ear. There, Jared whispers, “I need you to fuck me now, okay? This is us, together, doing this. Just show me what to do.”

Jensen is stock-still for a half-second, then gives a sharp little nod and turns his head to feather a light kiss across Jared’s cheek. Then he reaches for Jared’s hip, wordlessly urging him over onto his belly.

Jared flips over. The sheets feel cool against his stomach and his neglected cock. He takes a deep breath and buries his face into the pillow, clutching it with his hands.

"Just relax," he hears Jensen croon, running the palm of one hand over Jared’s ass and then down between his thighs, gently nudging them apart. "Relax, Jay, because I’m going to make you feel really good. I promise."

Jensen hasn’t called him “Jay” in years. That’s a name from the beginning. A name from when they were young and dumb and high on the drug of a new television series all their own.

Jared spreads his knees apart.

"Good. Yeah. That's the way." And it’s as if the sound of Jensen’s praise is a physical touch, too, the sultry satisfaction in his voice sweeping down Jared’s spine. 

There’s the wet squelch of lube squirting out of a bottle, and then pressure on one cheek of his ass to open him wider. A cool finger touches his entrance, and Jared jerks despite all attempts to hold still. But Jensen doesn’t stop, just keeps giving soft strokes over his hole, gentle pressure over and around. Jared tries to remember to keep breathing, trembling at the sensation of Jensen’s touch on that tender, hidden skin.

“Raise up for me a little, okay?” 

Jared arches and angles his hips, just a little, and when the first finger eases in, it’s not painful like he’d feared, just strange, visceral, unsettling. He hears Jensen make this little noise—a low, desperate _ahhh_ —as if it were his first time instead of Jared’s. The sound’s intoxicating, inspiring, and Jared finds himself shifting higher onto his knees, leaning back into Jensen’s careful press. His finger slips deeper inside Jared, slicking his insides with lube. Oh god. Then Jensen’s murmuring soft offerings of encouragement, endearments as he drags in-and-out, in-and-out of Jared in a slow, purposeful rhythm.

Jared’s just starting to adjust to the feel, thinking maybe this won’t be so bad, when Jensen finds that place inside him, that place he’s read and heard about: the infamous prostate. The name sounds so clinical, but the feeling when Jensen touches it—just skating over it at first, and then rubbing at it firmly when Jared jerks and sucks in a gasp of surprise—is anything but. It’s a live-wire shock, a whiskey-shot of heat every time Jensen’s finger strokes over that spot. More and more, unstoppable, and Jared feels like he’s going to jet right off the bed, burst out of his skin, something, anything, until suddenly Jensen slots two fingers in together and Jared has to cry out his name just to release some of the tension building inside him. 

More lube, and still more, Jensen’s drowning him in it—slippery and dripping and gross—and a bizarrely clear observation occurs to Jared that the sheets are probably going to be fucking ruined. For an eternity it’s all pressure and fullness and random bursts of pleasure. Then he hears himself chanting into the pillow, over and over, “Please, Jensen. Please. Please.”

He tosses his head side to side, rocking back and forward, can't keep still. Just then, Jensen works a hand underneath him, fingertips skimming his belly, down to cup his balls, his wide palm surrounding Jared’s cock, giving him pressure and friction and damn, it feels so good Jared wants to scream, louder, longer. Jensen’s rolling his fingers over the head, back down the shaft, squeezing and stroking in time with his thrusts into Jared’s ass, maybe three fingers in there now, the sharp sting of the stretch hardly discernable over the waves of stimulation surging through him. 

Some instinct deep within him has slipped its tendrils up to the surface. In all the sex Jared’s ever had before in his life he’s been aggressive, in charge. But now the only thing he wants is Jensen in control. He wants Jensen to possess him, to cover him with his whole body, wants his dick inside him, and he wants it right now.

But instead, Jensen slides his fingers out and Jared’s suddenly empty, aching and hollow. He can’t believe all the stress he’d felt at the thought of getting a dick shoved in him, when it turns out what’s killing him is that it’s not. Jensen’s other hand is still moving, skimming light, barely-there brushes along Jared’s cock. But that’s not nearly enough. It’s making things worse. Fuck, he’s never had it this bad before, burning up with need. “Now. Goddamn it, fuck me now, or fucking forget it.”

The bastard just laughs— _laughs_ —but Jared doesn’t care anymore because he feels the strange but welcome heat of Jensen’s thighs against the back of his and the blunt, hot tip of something that is definitely not Jensen’s fingers settling in the hollow of his stretched-open entrance.

Jensen’s hands come up to hold his hips steady, his thumbs digging into the meat of Jared’s ass, and he murmurs, "Here we go. Breathe for me, Jay. Let me in."

Jared fills his lungs with air, willing himself to open up. Then Jensen's hips shift, driving his cock inside, a steady, unrelenting push. Jared locks around it like a vise.

It’s too big, thick and unyielding, and each roll of Jensen’s hips sends it inching unbelievably deep, forcing open space where there is none. Jared winces and digs his fingers tighter in the pillow. His body protests the intrusion even as his mind rings with a fervent chorus of _Jensen, Jensen, that’s Jensen._ The searing pressure goes on and on, not stopping, never stopping, until it does. And finally Jensen’s got himself draped over Jared’s back, his damp chest slipping against the matching gloss of sweat that covers Jared, his mouth open on Jared’s shoulder. 

There’s a pause, Jared panting in tandem with the puffs of Jensen’s hot breath against his skin. Then he wriggles experimentally, lifting up a little to feel the insane sensation of Jensen’s huge cock moving inside him, inside his body. Somehow it feels good, necessary, and he swivels his hips again, reveling in the full-body shudder Jensen gives when he does.

“Jesus Christ," Jensen moans, his voice crushed velvet and oven-hot. "You’re perfect. So perfect. Are you okay? Ah, god, can I move?" 

Jared has lost all ability to form words, so he just reaches one hand back to grab Jensen’s thigh, dragging at it and bucking his hips back to seat Jensen an impossible half-inch more. Jensen moans again and sets his teeth into Jared’s shoulder blade. The sting of it clashes with the gritty-sweet burn in his ass as Jensen pulls out and shoves fiercely back in. Jared starts with “fuck,” and then continues with a steady stream of swear words, even as he rears back to meet each of Jensen’s thrusts, the friction giving way to pure heat with each pass of their hips. 

Jensen gets his hand back on Jared’s cock. The first stroke over it matches a long drag over that bright spot deep inside, and suddenly Jared can't think. And he can't breathe. And he can't understand anything that isn't Jensen's throbbing dick filling him up, Jensen's hand bringing him off, Jensen’s tongue and teeth worrying a bruise into his skin, no, no, too much, too much, too much.

In a burst of liquid heat, bliss floods out from the base of Jared’s spine, through his balls and his cock, washing over every nerve, through every vein. Thick spurts of white splash onto the sheets beneath him and coat Jensen’s hand as Jared arches back, keening wordlessly in pleasure and release. Jensen’s choked cries sound counterpoint as he plunges frantically into Jared’s body, his free arm slung tight around Jared’s chest the only thing holding him up. Five more thrusts, six, ten, and Jensen freezes. Then Jared feels the uncanny, instantly addictive sensation of Jensen coming, his dick pulsing, slicking up that last little space inside. 

The minutes after that are all a haze. Jared collapses onto the pillow, boneless, senseless, Jensen easing him down, easing himself carefully out of Jared with a groan. Jensen rolls off the bed and Jared vaguely notes him padding to the bathroom and returning with a washcloth. He’s so wrung out that he can barely help as Jensen wipes him off and covers him with the bedding retrieved from the floor. 

But he’s not so out of it that he can’t grab Jensen’s hand, tugging him into the bed, rolling away from the wet spot and tucking Jensen into his chest. He rests his chin on the top of Jensen’s head.

“So,” Jensen says, his words muffled into Jared’s skin. “That was good, right? You’re sure you’re okay?” 

Jared twines his feet between Jensen’s legs and skims his hand down the sleek skin of his back. It has always amazed Jared how, sitting or standing, they fit perfectly together. It’s no surprise that they fit right here, too. 

He could get used to this. He hopes to God he gets the chance to get used to this.

“More than okay,” he replies gruffly, his voice a ragged mess. He clears his throat to try again, but realizes he doesn’t actually have the words to tell Jensen exactly how fucking okay he is.

So he simply lies there, silent, letting the final dregs of pleasure leech out of him, feeling Jensen’s strong heart beat against his, playing with fine short hairs at the nape of Jensen’s neck. There’s time enough.

That’s when Jensen says, quietly, “When Daniel left, he told me it was because he couldn’t stay in a relationship with a guy who was in love with someone else.”

Jared’s heart stutter-steps at that. “Well, I think I’ve been in love with you for 10 years,” he answers earnestly. “It just never occurred to me to connect that with—with orgasms.” He swallows the last word, feeling his face flush, goddamn it.

“If you can’t say it,” Jensen teases, lifting with one hand, propping himself to look down into Jared’s face, “you shouldn’t be doing it.”

“Screw you,” Jared retorts. “See there? I can say it.”

Jensen grins, but immediately turns serious again. “And then, that video. It was a moment of weakness. After I sent it. I thought I lost you.” His hand comes up to run fingertips along Jared’s cheek. Jared closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

“You could never lose me, no matter what,” he says and his heart aches at the thought of ever living through the last two weeks again. But, right now they’re together, naked, and this conversation is just too somber. “Heck, if this is what sex with you is like, I may never leave this bed!”

He pokes the hollow of Jensen’s elbow just hard enough to make the joint give way, sending him sprawling back down over Jared’s chest with an _oof_.

Jared wraps him up again, nuzzling at his ear. “You have to promise me,” he murmurs, “you’ll stop doing the striptease thing. Never. Forever. _Especially_ at cons.”

“Why?” Jensen asks.

Jared chuckles. “Because I’m likely to spring wood right there in front of God and Supernatural fandom if you even hint at it.”

Jensen laughs, too. But it’s got an evil ring to it. 

“I’m serious,” Jared says. “No more striptease. Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay.”

Jensen’s hands start to roam lazily over Jared’s skin, and Jared’s ambitious cock gives a little twitch of interest. 

“Lucky for me,” Jensen says innocently. “I still have the hula hoop.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> An AU version of what happened post-finale of Supernatural Season 10. Written for the spn-meanttobe challenge. My thanks to the amazing fiercelynormal for the helpful beta and writing support. All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Please go give my amazing collaborator, dollarformyname, feedback on her art: http://dollarformyname.livejournal.com/74384.htmlspn


End file.
